Don't Forget to Write
by bearkatcat
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock. Fluff. John's mental state is slowly deteriorating after losing his best friend - his Sherlock. Mycroft, Lestrade, and others try to help, but to no avail.
1. Chapter 1

"One year."

John blankly stared at the smooth, black stone before him. A golden engraved name: _Sherlock Holmes. _It had been a year since the light in John's eyes fell from the top of St. Bard's and shattered against the pavement.

Bloody.

Broken.

John initially felt overwhelming sadness. Who wouldn't, after their best friend jumped off a god damn building? But, as weeks bled out to months, the sadness gave way to numbness.

He never knew that'd he'd feel so completely _numb_ again. Like after Afghanistan. Like when the stars shone dull and every day ended before it had begun.

Until he met Sherlock.

And then there was colour again.

Every single thing that had been bright and beautiful and exciting in his time with Sherlock faded into some dull shade of grey. His world had gone from dull, to brilliant.

But now he was right back where he started.

His phone vibrated.

_I may have found a potential job for you, John._

_-MH_

_not today mycroft._

_-JW_

_I see._

_-MH_

_Well, let me know if you are interested. You need to start doing something, rather than sitting around that flat._

_-MH_

A soft breeze tugged the grass along in the cemetery. The leaves fluttered softly, a few breaking off their branches and falling to the ground. John had to admit - it was a pretty place.

A depressing, yet beautiful place.

After he had been bouncing the bouquet against his leg a few minutes, John set down the flowers he'd brought. Molly bought them for the flat. But John didn't have colours anymore.

Sherlock had his colours.

He would keep the flowers.

John waited another few moments, before letting a small sigh escape. He turned around and began to make the walk home. Mycroft offered a car, but John had no desire to take it.

He shuffled away, limping slightly, cane held tightly in his right hand.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three knocks. Door. Go? Nah._

John was drunk. Not the kind of drunk where you giggle a bit too much and allow some small secret (that wasn't really all that well kept) to escape. It was the drunk where the wall and the floor merge together and you forget your own name.

"John? It's me… Just thought I'd check in"

_Greg? Answer? Can't walk. No._

John sat on the old couch, slumped against the edge. Various bottles were littered on the table, some were tipped over, empty, on the floor.

"You aren't drunk, are you? You probably are." The grey-haired man sighed, running his fingertips down his stubble. "I'm coming in, John."

_Click, click. Hah. Like that gun. I shot the cabbie. Heh._

Lestrade unlocked the chipped, blue door to 221B. Up the stairs. Found the man sprawled out on the frayed couch. "There you are."

"Mmmemrg."

"Come on. Let's get you to bed. It's been a…" He swallowed, blinking rapidly. No tears. He had to be there for John because even though Greg was a sputtering machine, John was broken.

Or near to breaking, anyway.

"It's been a long day, John."

_Am I falling? Sherlock._

Greg lifted his broken friend easily.

Far too easily. _Is he eating? _Greg thought about the times John had come in, leaning against the cane that John used to leave behind. How he wobbled. How his laugh had a chilled edge, like frost upon frozen glass. _I'll see that he at least gets a lunch tomorrow._

Lestrade found this to be adequate. It made him feel less responsible. Even though he considered everything his own bloody fault, anyway.

_I'm floating. Float. Fall, hah. Sherlock._

He softly tapped the door to John's room open with his foot.

_I can fall. Sherlock._

Setting the man down, Lestrade rummaged through the slightly messy room and found a blanket. He draped it over his friend, watching as John's eyes fluttered open and shut. Open. Shut.

"You bloody idiot."

_Fell. Sherlock._

Greg turned and exited the room, calling back a 'Goodnight, John' and leaving. _God help him. Sherlock…_ Greg left the flat that once held two brilliant men, but now only cradled one beaten one.

"Come back."

_Fall, fell._

_Heh. _John felt sleep, but his mind was so soaked in alcohol he couldn't really tell anymore.

_I'll fall just like Sherlock._


	3. Chapter 3

**_Hey, guys! Thank you to everyone who's read this, especially for those who posted reviews. Please critique my writing, or whatever. Give me ideas, or anythng you'd like to see. I'm really suprised anyone has looked at this, so thank you! -R_**

* * *

"Ugh."

John blearily glanced around his room, rubbing his index finger and thumb between his eyes. He felt the repercussions of his drinking last night, his stomach turning over at any slight movement.

Somehow managing to heave himself through a shower, the man began his daily routine.

Shower. Dress. Sit on couch. Watch the telly but not really pay attention. Ignore the call from the therapist.

John glanced at his phone. He had three new messsages, two from My croft, another from Greg.

_John, have you thought about that job? It's at a very prestigious hospital. There won't be an opening for long._

_-MH_

_You really should take it. _

_-MH_

_Bloody Mycroft._ John did not _want _a job. He didn't want to have another place where he would have to pretend that he was doing well and fine and that nothing was the matter. He didn't really want anything anymore.

And the one thing he did really want, he knew he could not receive.

_oi, john, want to grab lunch later?_

_-GL_

_sure. when?_

_-JW_

_working on a case right now, maybe in an hour?_

_-GL_

_that's fine_

_-JW_

_Lunch. Huh. What a concept._ John's eating pattern's had been spotty over the last year. There would be days where he wouldn't even think about eating. Often, a pang of hunger would hit and he'd have toast or something, but eating really never came to mind.

Ironic, though, how he always badgered Sherlock to eat, but now…

Well, now he had fallen into his old flatmate's habits. Or maybe his own old habits. He never really ate before Sherlock either.

He really had gone back where he started.

_So. I figured that I would take the liberty to sign you up for the job anyway._

_-MH_

_no_

_-JW_

_It will be good for you. _

_-MH_

_still no_

_-JW_

_There is a very lovely girl there I went to school with. I could introduce you two…_

_-MH_

_i will continue to say no_

_-JW_

_You start work next Monday. 8 o'clock sharp. Don't be late. I'll send you the address later._

_-MH_

_fine_

_-JW_

A girl. John knew that maybe before he'd have been more interested, but romantic relationships had gone onto the list of things he couldn't bother about the day Sherlock stepped off that roof.

John hadn't even gone near a hospital since then, much less work in one. _I guess I will have something to do…_ He sighed, rubbing his temples.

_hey, I'll be there in a few minutes. want to go to that old pub near the station?_

_-GL_

_Time to smile. _


End file.
